


hashtag dreamleading problems

by natalunasans



Series: Ownership Enough [39]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Comic Relief, Domestic Fluff, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreamsharing, Established Relationship, Gen, M/M, Other, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 07:24:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14910942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalunasans/pseuds/natalunasans
Summary: This was supposed to be one prompt and under 300 words but I used 2 prompts as bookends and also it got longer. Sorry?





	hashtag dreamleading problems

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yellowbessie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellowbessie/gifts).



> This was supposed to be one prompt and under 300 words but I used 2 prompts as bookends and also it got longer. Sorry?

“Come to bed? I can’t sleep without you here,” the Doctor finally admits, their voice dull. Emotion takes energy.

The Master presses the lock button on his tablet, pausing the book he was reading on the first page of chapter thirty-six. He grins, baring his teeth in the dark. It's good, this.

In the moment it takes to reach the bed, his vision has adjusted enough to see the Doctor curled towards him, rubbing already bruised eyelids.  He nudges the Doctor’s shoulder and growls, “other way.”

They obey, turn to face the wall.

The Master sits down on already warm sheets, raises just enough mental shielding to avoid… distractions, pulls incompliant legs up onto the mattress. He slots himself in behind the Doctor, his role at night the big spoon, their protector for a change. Both of them shirtless in the decidedly un-British summer heat, there’s no need to put his upper hand on their temple or dig his lower hand into their hair, but he does.

The Doctor reaches automatically for the Master's fingers and he lets them pin his arm around them. He’ll soon have them asleep anyway.

He leans his forehead into the nape of their neck and his mind seeps through the last of a thinning veil into theirs. He breathes in the Doctor’s odours: leftovers of their preposterous herbal shampoo; mellow spices from cooking dinner; and their sweat that, while unpleasantly sticky like anyone else’s, somehow manages to smell like sweetcorn.

The Doctor is relaxing already; the Master can feel their unquiet thoughts slow and rearrange themselves to his bidding, like that device he once made to sort all the coins he found in their pockets into one jar per planet.

Yes, he had really been _that_ bored. The best part was how it _didn’t_ sort them into economic regions or even eras… until, that is, he saw how the Doctor _enjoyed_ trying to pay for things with currency from the future or the past, or even the next continent over. Paying for fish and chips with wooden nickels from a treeless future timeline where they’re worth more than the gold coins the Doctor tries next. Really, the Master should have been able to predict this outcome, but even after all this time inside each other’s minds, they still manage to surprise him. He supposes that isn’t all bad, for example, the vendors make simply _fantastic_ faces trying to suss out this mad person, while the Master gets to stand and watch without helping in the least.

He’s wandering, like the Doctor's head full of tangents. This won't do.

As the Master corrals his own thoughts, he feels the Doctor's amusement: _Not easy, is it?_

 _Bad influence!_ But he can't stay angry with them; they can't help their brain being this way, any more than he can make his memory work right.

The Master concentrates his whole imagination into conjuring up peaceful (boring) scenes, like shared memories but without the tension most of those would bring. The goal is to slip one or both minds imperceptibly into sleep, almost unnoticed, except that he's still in control.

As they float through an almost-familiar landscape, the Doctor’s contrarian mind, even unconscious, throws in surreal extras. It derails the Master’s process but he must remain patient; anger would wake them both. So he deflects: psychedelic squirrels wander off quietly, iridescent golems lumber gently past and go about their business without interacting. The simpler the dream environment, the less likely the Doctor will find a way to terrorise themself in it.

Sometimes he would stay and sleep with them, but he already slept half the day, having started out with even more pain than usual. Now the Master is restless, wanting to make the most of having got some energy back, so as soon as the Doctor is deep asleep he’ll escape and wander around, maybe work on a project.

Carefully, the Master disentangles his arm from the Doctor's, and his hand from under their head. He pauses every time their dream disturbs or their breath quickens, waits until they're safely absorbed in sleep again. He’s just reached the edge of the bed, ready to stretch bare toes to the cool floor, as static leaks out of their dream. Already?! It’s going to be a long night. He waits, in case of a false alarm, but the atmosphere of the Doctor’s mind on the psychic wavelength is increasingly agitated.

They’ve splayed right out as he retreated, taking up two-thirds of the bed as usual, but now their limbs flail, legs kicking at an unseen assailant and arms reaching… for help they cannot find. The Doctor screams, alone inside their dream.

The Master’s expecting this, but the sharpness and volume still startle him, and he curses under his breath before flopping back into what space is left on the bed. He grabs for the Doctor’s hands and his mind floods with the brightness of what was chasing them; when he pins their palms over his hearts, he sees and hears as clearly as they do, an amorphous shape that flashes and vibrates with lightning, lunging towards them. Even knowing it’s not real, the Master fights to control his own panicked pulses; tries to convince his brain that those lights aren’t _really there_ , it doesn’t need to respond with more headache. He knows from experience that waking the Doctor in the middle of a nightmare isn’t going to help; they’ll only suffer another several days of insomnia, and what’s more important, _he’ll_ suffer another several days with a sleep-deprived partner.

He’s saved by remembering the phrase _All Hail the Glowcloud_ , from one of those Earth documentaries the Doctor likes to listen to, and even though he never quite got the joke, knowing that there _is_ one… helps somehow. He repeats it over and over like an incantation until the adversary calms its inner storms, backs off, and floats away.

The Doctor whimpers, their dreamscape still filled with ominous clouds of fear.

The Master plucks their hands away from his chest, but only to manoeuver himself closer. Wriggling between their arms, he leans his head into their shoulder and slips his upper arm under theirs. Good thing he’s always cold, or this would be intolerable. He nudges the leftover storms gradually out of the imagined sky.

The Doctor’s heartsbeats and breathing haven’t slowed much, but they squeeze him as if they’re holding on for dear life.

The Master rubs comforting circles on their back. _Shh… you’re safe now._


End file.
